


Five Times Steve Wakes Up (and one time he does)

by Starfire (kalypsobean)



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: 5 Times, Epic Friendship, Gen, Platonic Soulmates
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-27
Updated: 2020-04-27
Packaged: 2021-03-01 23:54:19
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,641
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23865586
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kalypsobean/pseuds/Starfire
Summary: Steve and Bucky at various points in time.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes & Steve Rogers
Comments: 1
Kudos: 8
Collections: Gen Freeform Exchange2020





	Five Times Steve Wakes Up (and one time he does)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lionessvalenti](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lionessvalenti/gifts).



i.

It's morning in New York, which means that grey-filtered light is streaming through Steve's window, casting smog-tinted shadows across charcoal lines; there's just a hint of wind, too, that makes the papers rustle. Steve knows there's a rock holding most of them down, the ones not stuck to the wall or wedged in between furniture or the few books he has. He knows because he remembers when they weren't, and they scattered across the room with each ill-directed breeze. He remembers Bucky picking them up, carefully ordering them the way he knew Steve liked them. He remembers Bucky giving him the rock, how it was still warm from being carried in Bucky's pocket, probably for most of the day. It had been worn smooth well before then, but Steve liked to think that part of it stayed with Bucky.

He remembers how Bucky had curled up on the bed next to him, making up ridiculous stories about each of the little shells and bones that were cemented into it. He mostly remembers how Bucky had been pressed against him, shoulder to hip, and he'd still had to twist awkwardly to see, although he still sometimes catches himself thinking of the shells with a name. 

Steve catches a flicker of yellow-white off to the side, and sees a paper flitting to the floor, and another. He sighs as he pushes himself up, remembering to lean just so to avoid hitting his head on the ceiling (it hadn't seemed so low before), and starts gathering the papers. He doesn't even remember drawing some of these, or where the ideas came from; sometimes they're stories Bucky made up, or things he's seen, or heard of from the radio. 

He doesn't know where Bucky's rock went, or why Bucky would have told him stories about snow-covered cliffs, or tents strung up beneath trees, but he doesn't have time to think about it; his ma will be home soon, and it's up to him to have the oven heating so she can start on dinner.

ii.

It's an alley, probably like thousands of other alleys, though it's not like Steve's ever going to see those. Bucky's laughter is desperate, almost manic, and he's swaying just a little bit more than Steve thinks is healthy.

"You see that?" Bucky says, almost breathless, and starts laughing again. 

Steve doesn't quite know what he saw; it started out the same kind of Saturday night as always, although it was Bucky's idea to drag him out, just the two of them, instead of Steve shooing Bucky out on his own. He definitely has a very clear memory of Bucky saying it didn't matter that he didn't feel well, because he could just sit at a table in the corner. 

He also has a very clear memory of there being an accordion and Bucky doing some kind of jig, pulling him up, and insisting he dance. Since Bucky knows he definitely does not dance, that one doesn't make sense, but it's too clear, too detailed, for him to be getting mixed up. He remembers feeling happy, for a moment, as Bucky held his hands and swung him around. Bucky caught him when he stumbled, and he remembers feeling weightless and invincible, like nothing in the world could stop him.

"Yeah, Buck, great job," he says, and Bucky grins, his teeth tinged pink. 

Steve's not sure how they ended up outside, but he reckons Bucky had a good reason. 

The cold starts to seep in, then, as if it had been held at bay simply by virtue of Steve's unconsciousness. He shivers; suddenly Bucky's arm's around his shoulder, and they're stumbling home, and Steve feels like he's getting high off the alcohol on Bucky's breath, or just being alive.

iii.

There's a woman with red hair who moves almost too smoothly for him to see; she's swift and certain in a way that indicates that she treats her body as a tool, something to be cared for and honed for a specific job, and this one is hers. She smiles as he blocks her, only at the last minute, her blade inches from his eye.

"Again," she says, and he wonders whether this is for her benefit, or his.

"I'm not that easy to sneak up on," he says, but he closes his eyes again and wills himself back to sleep. That's one of the few things the Army taught him that they didn't include in the manual; he very rarely sleeps without being at least partway aware, or for very long, but he can sleep. It's useful, although he wonders how much of it is simply due to being able to breathe and sleep at the same time.

Sometimes he dreams of Bucky, his eyes blank and his movements as efficient and strong as ... he doesn't know her name, or this world he's in. Sometimes he just dreams of cold, and Bucky falling, the distance between them achingly far until it snaps, as if frozen and shattered. Those nights, he never gets back to sleep; he just waits for dawn so nobody asks him questions he can't answer.

Sometimes it's Bucky that wakes him, a feeling that he's not alone, an indent on his pillow that's warm, a stray dark hair left behind, the memory of a shadow that's obviously just a trick of the light, his brain processing images incorrectly.

iv.

Bucky always wanted a farm. It was the opposite of everything they had: space, quiet, animals, steady work. It's not quite how Steve pictured it, but Bucky looks happy, and that's enough for him. There's trees for miles, no roads, and Bucky does most of the work by hand, claiming to find it empowering, so the closest thing to technology is the rondavel itself. 

Nothing quite fits, but when Bucky untangles himself and pushes Steve back down, telling him he doesn't need to help to have a place here, Steve finds he doesn't have the energy to think about why. It's not quite light out; the night has cooled the air, and Steve finds sleep too enticing to fight it.

Knowing Bucky's only a few hundred yards away helps.

v.

He blinks, the brightness too much even for him. He isn't sure what he expected, but weaving in and out for days wasn't it; he thinks it's been days, it could be minutes, for all his mind's been playing tricks on him. 

Nothing seems to have changed but the sun, sinking lower and casting a brilliant red across the sky; red that shades into blue as the snowdrifts absorb the light. He'd draw it if he could, but Bucky would make fun of him for noticing something so small, ask him when he's going to finish it because you can't have a drawing without people, Steve, otherwise it's just a picture that doesn't say much of anything.

"This says something," he says, although he doesn't hear it, which is weird, but honestly, not very, because his hearing's been shot since the engines cut out, a loud rat-tat-tat that echoes even now, so he can't have been here long, although the icing on the windows says otherwise. "It says everything."

Bucky's hand is on his shoulder. "I know, Steve. Was just messing with you."

They watch the shadows darken in silence. 

vi.

Steve instantly knows something's wrong. Waking up at all, that's one indicator, although he feels rested, and everything feels like it's in place, as if that last jagged sear of pain was only a dream. He's not cold, although he feels like he is; the air is thicker and lighter than he's used to. The light is wrong, too; it's far too yellow, for one, and the dust motes that float through it take on a golden hue that's all wrong for the area, it should be white, ochre at best. He should smell wood and oil. He should be able to hear a low hum, made up of hammers and men yelling and the sound of footsteps and trains, punctuated by low, long blows of a horn. (He and Bucky used to run down to the docks and wave at the tugboats; he'd know their horns anywhere, the horns he hears outside are too short, too highly pitched.) The sheets should be raw enough that he can feel the weave on his skin, though he's long past the point where he was sensitive enough that it hurt. 

Bucky should be banging on the door, telling him that he should get decent because they've got places to be. 

The walls should be shaking, slightly, because they were never built to be next to a road with cars.

Steve has never slept through a Dodgers game in his life; if he couldn't go, he'd sit by the radio, even if he had to drag every blanket in the house out to wrap around him. Bucky would join him, sometimes... but this game, they were there. He remembers it because the stands were packed and Bucky had given him a running commentary; he hadn't really needed it, since the people in front of them weren't that much taller, but there was something comforting about Bucky talking to him, being close enough to feel the vibrations as Bucky spoke and just knowing that he would always be there, somehow.

But here, Bucky's gone, and he doesn't feel bereft, or angry, or pained. Bucky's just not there, and there's a tiny little scar where their friendship used to be, as if Bucky's been gone for years and Steve knows he's out there somewhere, happy, and it's the best thing for both of them. They'll see each other again, somewhere familiar, somewhere distant.

"Where am I?" he says, although he knows the answer isn't going to be one he wants to hear.


End file.
